Chapter 1
EMORY
My lungs fill with air, my body silently gasping in that way it does when I dip my head underwater for a few seconds too long and come up for air.
Only, I don’t really feel it throughout my body.
It’s more of a subconscious sensation that wraps around my brain until a painful heaviness pushes through.
It covers me in a blanket of discomfort, of unease, of confusion.
I don’t know why I’m feeling this way, only that I am.
I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids are terribly heavy. It takes a constant stream of thought to get them to crack open, my eyelashes branch-like strands that scratch against the sensitive skin they rest on.
I attempt moving my arm, but a maddening agony sweeps over it. It travels up, sliding over my elbow and toward my shoulder in a way that sparks an anxiousness inside of me that I can’t say I’ve ever felt before.
What is happening, and why do I feel like this?
A new wave of nerves floods my system, and I try to swallow, but I can’t.
My throat is disgustingly dry, my spit not near enough to coat it.
I clear it next, trying my damnedest not to spiral, but I feel it—the fear of not knowing what’s going on—climbing up my body until it sits itself on my diaphragm and presses down, making itself comfortable.
I drag in deeper, quicker breaths, noting that there’s a large, jaw-dropping pinch that crackles through my chest when I do. It forces my breathing to shallow, which only makes me panic more. Because I need oxygen. I need to give my lungs air, but I can’t.
I can’t.
Oh, god.
My eyes finally open to a blurry room. I try to make sense of my surroundings, but I…
I’m not at home in the comfort of my own bed with Lance, pictures of us perfectly poised on top of the dresser that sits across from it.
There are no wispy curtains tucked to the sides of three wide, chunky windows.
The walls aren’t decorated with abstract wallpaper.
And it makes my stomach coil into a ball, much like how I would like to physically be. My body doesn’t allow it, though. My mind-body connection is somehow frayed, disturbed and unwilling to accept any commands as I lie on this stiff hospital mattress.
A sweatiness coats my skin, my hands turning clammy from the sensory overload. My ears tune in next. They pick up on the discomforting melody of a beeping that I’ve only really heard on medical TV shows—mainly Grey’s Anatomy.
Beep, beep, beep.
The sickness that flickers to life in my stomach twists into an aggravated fury, and the unavoidable pressure of vomiting swarms the back of my throat. My heart races in my ribcage, my head suddenly hurting in a delirious kind of way.
Everything hurts. Somebody make it stop.
I go to speak, to say, “Hello?” but what comes out is the strangled sound of a lonely H. It triggers me into swallowing, which sends me into a coughing fit.
Pain ricochets around inside of me, having a grand ol’ time. I silence my coughs a few too early because of it.
I don’t know what to do. How to stop it and make it go away. It clings to me, absorbing deep into my tissues and organs. I don’t dare move, afraid that if I do, I’ll streamline a new set of sensations I might not be ready for.
Now or ever.
When I glance around, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, a body moving from a sitting to a standing position, a phone clutched in the person’s hand with the screen lit.
Lance.
Relief, but not enough of it, pools in my head and heart at the sight of something familiar. It only makes me worry more, because for him to be here and away from work must mean that something tragic happened. And from the sounds of it, the tragedy involves me.
“L-Lance?” I manage to get out, the word sounding funky on my lips. Not because I don’t know it, but because it’s almost like I haven’t talked for days.
“Emory, you’re awake,” he says with relief, coming to stand next to the hospital bed.
My gaze tracks down his finely pressed button-up and khakis.
Back to the phone in his hand. The screen on it dims and a voice comes out of it.
I can’t make sense of the words, but I recognize the voice as his assistant’s.
Lance brings the phone up to his mouth and says, “I’ll call you back.
” He hits the button on the side of the phone and pockets it.
And then his full attention is on me. It washes over me in a way I’ve wanted for too long, but then it’s swept away when I notice his empty gaze—the same one that’s been there for months now.
Lance isn’t in love with me anymore. The apology of that truth—one he hasn’t said directly but in so many words and actions—swirls around his eyes as they take in my battered appearance.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s attempted to get back to that loving place with me, but in the end, just doesn’t know which direction to take to get there.
“What…” I squeeze my eyes closed because simply speaking hurts the upper half of my body. “What happened, Lance?” I ask, my words coated with a roughness that only comes from a great, deep sleep.
“Hang on.” He lifts a finger and walks around the foot of the bed.
I track him, watching as he goes for the door.
I catch sight of the small whiteboard hanging on the wall, a few different names scribbled out on it in red marker.
He’s back half a moment later. “The nurse on shift is coming.” He steps up to the side of the bed, propping his hands on his hips instead of reaching out for me.
Part of me wants just a little bit of his warmth, of those warm undertones that hooked me in the beginning.
“Can’t you just te—”
“You’re in the ICU,” he says. “And you’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last two days, give or take.”
Confusion mars my expression. I imagine myself shaking my head to try to make sense of what he’s telling me. “I don’t understand.”
“Your doctors have been giving you a cocktail of medications to keep you comfortable due to the injuries you sustained. One of the side effects of that has been an exorbitant amount of sleep. But also…” He trails off, and all I can think about is what he just said.
Doctors.
Cocktail of medications.
Injuries.
That melodic beeping grows louder and more intense, swishing in and out. My stomach twists harder, but the bile stays put. My head swirls with thoughts I can’t make sense of because…I don’t remember anything happening to me that would cause all of…this.
But then snippets push forward, giving me a string of reminders.
Waves.
Rocks.
My camera.
The awful sensation of liquid filling my lungs as I try to suck in air before everything goes dark. Just thinking about it stirs a burn below my ribcage.
“I don’t…”
Lance must tell from the expression on my face that I’m struggling to get my words out.
He continues, giving me an answer that makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Emory…you were rescued at Coralhaven Beach. A beachgoer saw you go under and almost didn’t make it out to you.
Paramedics had to perform CPR on the way to the hospital.
Thankfully, it wasn’t far, but your body was so close to giving out. ”
Panic swims in my chest as a coolness cloaks my body.
A flash of frothy water forms at the edges of my mind.
A towering wave comes next, reaching for the clouds in the otherwise clear sky.
And then that whistling returns in between the shuttering of something I recognize as my camera clicking as it freezes frames of time.
He licks his lips in that way he always does when he’s unsure if he should say something. It’s a tell of his that I’ve seen hundreds of times. His lack of communication is another indicator that what we have isn’t full proof.
If two people can’t talk to each other—about small or big things—what do they really have?
“That’s not all.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word, afraid of what he’s going to say next.
This is already terrible enough, increasingly so because I can only seem to remember fragments of what happened. My memory surrounding the event is spotty. What the hell else is there?
When Lance doesn’t respond, I ask, “Lance, what is it?”
His throat flutters with a swallow. “Emory, they think you were out there trying to…” He trails off a second time, but I have no idea what he’s going to say next. I wish he would just come right out with it.
“Lance,” I say in a voice that sounds a lot like a plea. “Please tell me. I need to know what’s going on.”
“They think it was an attempt to take your own life.” His voice drops an octave. “Em, they think you were trying to…commit suicide.”
I stare at the wall, my doctor’s words on repeat as I count the imperfections in the paint—chippings, scuff marks, areas that have been sun-stained. When my wrist twitches all on its own, I’m reminded that there’s an IV jabbed into the vein on my hand, dosing me with fluids and antibiotics.
I shift my gaze to the man standing at the foot of my hospital bed, thin white sheets draped over my legs to keep them warm. To keep me sheathed and protected from the chill in the room. The kind that comes from coldness but also bad news.
I’ve been zoning in and out as Dr. Miso talks, but I’ve heard enough to understand the extent of my injuries—aspiration pneumonia from water getting into my lungs, hypoxic brain injury; likely the cause of not remembering everything in explicit detail, a concussion, and a laceration on my arm that spans the length of twelve whole inches.
He clutches a clipboard in his big hands, the one that rests in a carrier on the edge of my bed for when new nurses and doctors come in to see me, as Lance and his parents—Larissa and Cliff Bronson—stand in the shadows just beyond.
“Emory, you’re lucky to be alive,” Dr. Miso says, his thin lips pressed into a firm line. I’m sure today isn’t the first time he’s said that to a patient. “And I’m glad to see you’re awake and starting to feel more like yourself, but there’s something else we need to discuss.”
I already know what he’s going to say. My entire chest bristles, tears pricking at my eyes at the notion that the people in this room observing me think I went to the extent of trying to harm myself.
Larissa and Cliff keep looking at me like something’s wrong. Like I’m a person they’ve known for years but don’t really understand.
“In situations where all signs lead to self-harm, the hospital’s policy is to place the patient on a psychiatric hold.” He clears his throat, and I just stare at the small almost see-through buttons on his white coat. “However, we understand this is a special circumstance.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m smart enough to know that speaking at all could make matters worse. The last thing I need is to make a fool of myself and break out into sobs.
I’m sad because I’m in this bed.
I’m sad because no one believes that I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.
I’m sad because there seems to be this loneliness that cinches my lungs every time I try to take a deep breath.
Instead of letting it go free, I clutch my emotion close to my chest and keep it covered for when I’m able to have a moment to myself. Away from all these prying, judgmental eyes. Eyes that ridicule and brand me with two actionable words that I’d never actually bring myself to do.
God, even Lance’s disparaging gaze cuts into me. It only makes breathing harder, knowing that the man I’m supposed to love doesn’t even believe me.
“After talking to your in-laws and fiancé, we think the best plan moving forward is for you to see a psychiatrist. Someone who can observe and evaluate your mental health, both before you’re discharged and after for continuous care.”
The corners of Dr. Miso’s mouth curve into a slight smile. It’s meant to be reassuring, but I wouldn’t exactly call it that. If anything, it’s a dagger that cuts straight through my heart and puts me right back in that water gulping down mouthfuls of horrid salt water.
I pick at my nails, not knowing how to respond. Anxiety wraps its strong fingers around my neck, and it’s like a noose, restricting my air flow once again.
I don’t want this for myself. I didn’t go out there with the plan to jump.
My heart thrashes in my chest, drilling through my ribs like a jackhammer trying to crack open cement. I try to sit up straighter. The monitor to my right shrieks out a string of beeps that only make me panic more when my lungs restrict airflow.
“Emory, try to breathe.” My doctor rushes to my side as he pulls his stethoscope from around his neck, but his voice is so far away, muffled by the sensory overload that charges through my limp, battered body. “It’s okay, Emory. Stay calm. You’re safe now.”
A nurse storms through the door next, but the only thought that swims through my head is: I can’t leave this hospital until I’m evaluated for trying to take my own life.
And then what’s going to happen after? Weeks and weeks of outpatient therapy to ensure my own safety.
Just like I couldn’t escape the water when it was too much, I can’t seem to avoid the terror that slips down the back of my throat and settles in my stomach.
I close my eyes to try to make sense of what I’m suddenly feeling, but I can’t. Not when people are checking my pulse and pulling at the IV in my hand to make sure it’s still there.
It’s almost like I’m right back in that ocean, white-capped waters enveloping me as I struggle to keep my life.
And then, just like before, my mind drifts into a blackness that doesn’t feel bad but also doesn’t feel good.
I’m…numb.
And I can’t see a damn thing.
Except for navy waves, only instead of them slowly killing me, they wrap around me, hugging me tight to their chests in a way that offers me this twisted sense of comfort.